by Di Morrissey
‘Yeah, right, Dad. As if,’ she sniffed.
Chris felt frustrated by Megan’s relentless negativity, but he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He knew that it was always difficult being the new person, and he hoped that his daughter would be able to make friends soon. He hated to see her so unhappy. They sat in silence for a few moments, digesting the conversation.
‘Dad, I suppose I could take Mollie up on her offer,’ Megan said thoughtfully.
‘What was that?’
‘Well, you know Squire, Mollie’s horse? I’ve been brushing him down because Mollie finds it too difficult, and I can tell that Squire likes me. Anyway, Mollie said that if I wanted, she would teach me to ride him. So, I’m wondering if I should be game enough to try it. He is a lovely old horse.’
‘Hey! Amazing! Fantastic idea. That’s something I’ve never done,’ replied Chris enthusiastically.
‘Mollie says that she has helmets and boots that’d fit me. I don’t need anything else, much, for just riding around the paddock.’
‘Well, there you go. Before you know it you’ll be competing in the local gymkhanas!’
Megan laughed. ‘I doubt it.’
Chris leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. ‘It’s going to be all right, Megs. We’ll muddle through. Both of us.’
*
Chris began to spend time at his computer after work, researching the Neighbourhood Aid project that had so captured his mother’s imagination and taken her abroad for the first time. There were other volunteer groups like hers which had operated in various countries and continued to do so, but what stood out about his mother’s 1968 programme was the calibre of the people who had taken part in it. He was yet to pinpoint the specific focus of his story, but he quickly realised that he had a lot of material, not only about the volunteering itself but also about the subsequent activities of that particular group. He knew he’d have to budget for trips to Sydney and Melbourne and possibly Canberra to search archives and conduct interviews, but it felt good to sink his teeth into the process of digging, discarding, probing, talking and analysing. He was determined to write an in-depth, pertinent backgrounder that would hopefully make editors sit up and take notice.
Megan, too, seemed in better spirits. At dinner two weeks after Jazzy’s visit, she announced she had news.
‘It’s so awesome. Simon Fowler is coming here! To Neverend, can you believe it? To judge a school contest!’
‘What? You mean the Hollywood actor?’ said Chris. ‘Why would he come to Neverend?’
‘Simon’s a local boy, Chris,’ said Susan. ‘Comes from just outside Coffs. I suppose he’s here visiting family. A few members of the Neverend school staff probably taught him. They might have kept in touch and that’s why he’s coming to the school.’
‘Just about everyone watches his show “The Way We Go”. This is so cool. Nothing like this ever happened at my old school,’ squealed Megan. ‘I suppose you know all about this, Bunny, but Dad, Neverend helps out a school in PNG. The school there doesn’t have much in the way of equipment and Neverend has sort of adopted it. The money raised from this contest is being used to buy books and pencils and that sort of thing and it all gets packaged up and sent to New Guinea.’
‘That’s right,’ added Susan. ‘Every year the kids in the junior, middle and upper schools write and star in their own short plays. The three plays are judged and the best performance wins a trophy. Everyone has to take part in some way or other and of course the age differences are taken into account in the judging, so that it’s fair. It’s been going on for some years now, but I have to say that usually the judges are not nearly as famous as Simon Fowler.’
‘So what part have you got, Megan?’ Chris asked.
‘Yeah, well, not what I wanted. I’m on the writing team. It’s a bit disappointing because it would have been so cool performing for Simon Fowler, but as you say, Dad, I’m grabbing the opportunity. Not that I can see it as much of one, but at least I’ll be able to skite to Ruby.’
A couple of days later, when Chris arrived home, he was confronted by a group of earnest teenagers sitting around the kitchen table, deep in conversation. When Chris greeted them, they all politely acknowledged him, but Megan made it clear that they were working really hard on a script and that it would be good if they weren’t interrupted. Chris smiled to himself and, after he’d made himself a cup of tea, quietly retreated to the study.
Over dinner, he asked Megan how things were going.
‘Brill, Dad, just brill. You have no idea how clever we are. This play is going to be so funny that everyone will wet themselves laughing.’
‘I hope not, but I get the picture.’
‘And Dad, these guys are into everything at school and they want me to join in.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Josh plays in the school orchestra and when I told him that I could play the clarinet, he said I should join, too. He even said that since he plays the saxophone, maybe we could start up our own jazz group. How cool would that be?’
‘I thought your mother stopped paying for your music lessons because you wouldn’t practise,’ observed Chris.
‘That’s because I didn’t do anything interesting with my music. This is way different. You wait. I’ll practise and practise and I’ll get picked for the orchestra. And you know what else? When I told Elle – she’s the one with the really red hair – that I was in the netball team at my old school, she said that I had to play netball for Neverend. She’s the captain of the middle school team.’
‘That’s great, Megan. You’ll be really busy.’
‘That’s not all. Bryan is in the debating team and he said that I was obviously really quick-witted and that I should try out for that, too.’
‘Are you going to have time for all these extracurricular activities, Megan?’ asked Susan with a faint smile.
‘Absolutely. And I’ll fit in riding Squire, too. I’ll still go out to Mollie’s, even when her arm gets better and she doesn’t really need my help.’ Megan sighed elaborately. ‘So much to do, so little time.’
Chris and Susan burst out laughing. It was hard to believe it had only been a couple of weeks since Megan had told them that her life had no future. Things had clearly turned around very quickly.
Just then, the phone rang and Susan went to answer it. She was gone for a few minutes, and when she returned she told Megan that Jazzy was on the line and wanted to talk to her. Megan smiled and went into the hall to talk to her friend.
‘What did Jazzy want?’ Chris asked Susan.
‘She phoned to thank us for helping her and to tell us that she was really happy to be home again. She also said that her parents were grateful for me calling them and telling them how unhappy she was. Wasn’t that nice? I spoke briefly to Janelle, who suggested that sometime in the future, Megan might like to go and stay with them for the weekend. Easy enough to do when you’re up and down that plateau so frequently. Still, it’s up to Megan.’
‘Hey, guys,’ said Megan, returning from the hallway. ‘Jazzy wants me to go and stay. I told her I was flat out at the mo, but that as soon as I had time, I would love to visit her. That’s okay with you two, isn’t it?’
Three weeks later, Megan burst into the house, her face flushed with pleasure. ‘We won. The middle school won the trophy and you know what? Simon Fowler said that our play was so funny that us writers could have a future as scriptwriters in Hollywood. How cool is that!’
Chris congratulated his daughter. ‘Well done, darling.’
‘Another budding writer in the family,’ Susan said, giving Megan a hug.
While Chris was relieved and happy that Megan had found her feet and was starting to settle in so well at Neverend, Chris knew much of it was due to his mother’s sensible and steadying influence. For a moment he remembered being the son leaving home and stepp
ing out into the world, convinced he would achieve great things. He’d felt invincible, he’d had talent and skills, and he’d known he would make a name for himself. And he had.
And now? He was over forty and yet here he was feeling like he was starting out in life all over again. But he was not the carefree young man he’d been back then, unburdened by ties or fears. He felt disillusioned, wounded and, despite the love and support of his family, lonely. He knew he had obligations, but the reality of responsibility was a heavy mantle, and for the moment the path ahead was dimly lit.
After spending time investigating their successful careers, Chris was beginning to feel as though he knew these men who’d been with Susan in Indonesia almost as well as she did. Susan had asked him to keep her name out of the article. She told Chris that she didn’t want the attention. In a small town, she didn’t want to dredge up the past for people to gossip about. Chris was happy to respect his mother’s wishes and he knew he had a good story anyway.
When he had initially googled the group, he’d found a passing reference in Evan’s citations, which were quite voluminous, to his work as a volunteer. Not much had been written about David, though Chris did find a paragraph about his work with the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, which said that he had been partly inspired to work in poorer countries by his experience in Indonesia. In the published material about the other two men, there was no mention of their time in Indonesia. And despite his best efforts, he couldn’t find anything on Norma.
Chris knew not to rely on what he found on the internet for his article, knowing how fallible it could be. He’d been taught by Mac to be prepared to verify every word he wrote. Fact-checking could be tedious, but Chris slept well at night. He knew many journalists were so rushed these days that they didn’t have the luxury of time to check much at all. But Chris knew that, once out there, incorrect facts became self-perpetuating. He contacted an old friend, Wendy, who was in charge of Trinity Press’s archives, to dig deeper.
‘Everything is available in online files now,’ Wendy told him. ‘There was one mad librarian here in the 1980s who tried to throw out all the original old cuttings books – you know, where the articles were cut and pasted up – so there could be some articles missing. You have some big names on your list, so you could also look up the various professional magazines. There should be something in those. Are you writing about these people for anyone in particular?’
‘Not really. It’s for whoever takes it, pays me, and keeps my name out there,’ said Chris. ‘Thanks for your help, Wendy.’
‘If I come across anything related to this star-studded cast of yours, I’ll get in touch.’
The financial papers, specialist magazines and reports relating to medicine and business filled in a few more gaps about the careers of Evan, Alan and Mark, but still nothing turned up on Norma. Chris even came across a few old radio and TV interviews, and he found that hearing the men’s work described in their own words was particularly helpful. Chris began to see that perhaps Mark’s philanthropic work and Evan’s outreach programmes could well have had their roots in the work they’d done in Indonesia.
Alan’s career had come a very long way from building rural roads and bridges in Java. He had become a major real estate developer, particularly known for the large-scale shopping centres that he’d spawned in sprawling suburban Australia. But although Chris could find plenty of information about Alan’s company, International Industries, and its developments, he could find very little actually published about the chairman himself. Even in media interviews over issues which involved his company, it was always one of his representatives who fronted the microphone and cameras. Indeed, Chris found several references to Alan Carmichael’s aversion to the media as well as some comments by one or two disgruntled shareholders over his failure to engage with them. But a glance at the share price index of International Industries showed that shareholders had little to complain about as the share price headed steadily north.
Chris saw that since there was already a lot of information available about the careers of these men, he needed to take a more original approach. He decided to concentrate on each individual and piece together a story which he could link back to their time as idealistic volunteers. Surely, Chris thought, their experiences in Indonesia all those years ago must have helped shape the pattern of their lives and careers. He hoped that he would be able to interview them and get their personal observations to confirm this idea. But before he had even sought his first interview, serendipity struck.
Susan came into the office as Chris was sorting through his papers. She looked surprised and somewhat pleased.
‘Hey, what’s up, Mum?’
‘We’re having a visitor for afternoon tea.’
‘That’s nice. Who?’
‘You’ll never guess. David Moore. He did say he might look me up one day in his travels, but I didn’t take him seriously.’
‘Well, that’s very fortuitous! Maybe I’ll be able to pick his brains for my article,’ said Chris.
‘I’ve got time to bake a cake before he gets here, or do you think that’s too old-fashioned?’
Chris smiled. ‘Mum, if David Moore doesn’t appreciate your cake, there are two other people in this house who will.’
*
David Moore arrived as Chris was getting out mugs for coffee. He heard his mother’s laughter as she brought David inside.
‘Well timed, Chris is making fresh coffee. Or would you prefer tea?’
‘I still love Java coffee, thick and strong. But I’ll take whatever is going.’
As they came into the kitchen, Susan said, ‘Chris, this is David Moore. My son, Chris.’
They shook hands and Chris instantly liked the easy manner, friendly smile and down-to-earth air David Moore radiated. He was solid and suntanned, with greying hair and a firm handshake. ‘Good to meet you,’ Chris said. ‘No Java coffee, I’m afraid, but I’ll double the dose of what we have, if you like.’
‘Thanks. What a great part of the country. Neverend’s a bit of a secret,’ said David.
‘We rather like to keep it that way,’ said Susan. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘To a place about one hundred and fifty kilometres west of here. There’s a property whose owners have developed an innovative system of regenerating the land. By improving its soil, saving water, and using natural methods, they have created a sustainable agribusiness that’s really flourishing. I have to go to see it for myself.’
‘That does sound interesting,’ said Chris. ‘I’d like to visit that property myself.’
‘You’re into farming?’ asked David.
‘Gosh, I know woefully little about farming, but I’m a journalist and by the sound of it that place could make a good story!’ said Chris. ‘I’m always on the lookout for things to write about for various magazines and suchlike.’
‘Ah, that’s right. Susan mentioned you were a writer. Yes, Core Creek Organic Farm is very innovative. They produce superb quality beef cattle as well as having a fantastic set-up with their production of free-range eggs. Two thousand chickens roam around the paddocks during the day and are provided with sheds on wheels for nesting safely at night. It sounds terrific.’
‘Certainly does.’ Chris poured the coffee and handed the mugs around and they chatted easily for a while. Finally Chris decided to broach the subject of the article. ‘David, I know that you’ve come to visit Mum, but I’ve an idea for a story based on you and your colleagues’ experiences in Indonesia in the late sixties. Would you have a moment after coffee, for a few questions about your time there and how it related to your subsequent career? If that’s okay with you?’ asked Chris.
‘Chris thinks he can sell a story about those days,’ explained Susan.
David didn’t hesitate. ‘Sure thing, Chris, if you think people would be interested in what we did all those y
ears ago, but first I want to know more about you, Susan. We didn’t catch up properly the other week,’ said David.
‘Of course,’ said Chris. ‘I’ll leave you two old friends to it. I’ll be in the study when you’re free to talk.’
*
About an hour later there was a tap at the door and David stuck his head into the office.
‘Am I interrupting? I’ve just had a tour of the garden. And I’ll have to make tracks soon, so if you want that chat, fire away.’
‘Great. Take a seat, David,’ said Chris as David settled himself in a large brown leather chair. ‘Would you mind if I recorded our conversation?’
‘That’s fine,’ said David, smiling. Chris clicked the recorder on.
‘I must say, although I was aware my mother had been in Indonesia, I’d never paid much attention to what it was all about until Mum got that invitation and my daughter insisted on hearing the full story,’ he said. ‘I was deeply impressed, not just by what you all did, but what you have all become. You are a pretty formidable group of Australians.’
‘Yes, the others have made great names for themselves. My contribution has been far more modest, I’m afraid. I stuck closely to the core business I was keen on.’
‘I can’t agree with you there.’ Chris smiled. ‘I’ve done some research on you and you are an internationally respected agriculturalist.’
‘Agronomist, actually,’ David corrected. ‘There’s a lot of science involved in maintaining our natural resources in order to sustain our global society. I work across a wide range of fields from biotechnology, genetics, soil to water preservation and improvement, and plant technology.’
‘That’s a long list.’ Chris consulted his notes. ‘And you worked for the Food and Agriculture Organization?’
‘Yes, the organisation is under the auspices of the United Nations and, as you can imagine, it has a broad mandate to contribute to better lives for rural communities and raise levels of nutrition around the world.’